


High-Minded

by Alethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidentally High, Brotherly Bonding, Dean Saves the World, Dean is a Master Tactician, Drugs, Gen, Humor, Psychotropic Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-24
Updated: 2006-08-24
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A possessed collective of mushrooms just shot all over me. You could show some sympathy, man.”</p>
<p>Sam’s lips fucking twitched, like he was about to laugh, and oh God, Dean was gonna kill his brother. Right after he rinsed the spunk out of his mouth, Jesus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High-Minded

**Author's Note:**

> Dean accidentally gets high. Sam deals really well. My thanks to guede_mazaka. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/222768.html).

“Ugh!” Dean spit as much as he could, but it so didn’t help, there was—was _spunk_ covering his face, in his mouth, in his eyes, all over the damn place and it tasted—

He gagged, leaning on the ground because at this point dirt smelled good, smelled like it’d taste better, and hell, that was probably true.

“Dude, what was that stuff?” Sam’s voice crept over him like he didn’t really want to know, but had to ask.

Dean shot him a dirty look, annoyed at the clean cleanliness of Sam. How did he manage to avoid the—whatever—that, that had _spurted_ out when Dean had shot the damn thing full of lead?

Dean didn’t answer, preferring to hack up as much as he possibly could instead of sitting down to have a nice chat about the correct terminology: spunk or spooge, which would you prefer? He growled into the dirt.

“No reason to get all pissy about it,” Sam said, correctly reading Dean’s mood—boy was a fuckin’ _genius_ —and face screwing up into something annoyed in response when Dean flicked his eyes to him. “You’re the one who got up and—”

“I know,” he ground out, not liking the grittiness he could feel coating his teeth. Shit, this was disgusting. Dean pushed himself to his knees, looking up at the leaves gently waving in the breeze and wondering at the fact that for all Sam’s sensitivity, the boy could really run roughshod over him sometimes. “A possessed collective of mushrooms just shot all over me. You could show some sympathy, man.”

Sam’s lips fucking twitched, like he was about to laugh, and oh God, Dean was gonna kill his brother. Right after he rinsed the spunk out of his mouth, Jesus.

Wow, there was one of those thoughts he didn’t expect to have, you know, _ever_.

Sam’s face smoothed into something controlled and he looked at Dean earnestly. “Hey, I’m sorry you got slimed.” Damn straight. He better fucking be sorry. “Let’s just hope they weren’t spores or anything and you don’t have little mini mushroom collectives growing in your body right this minute,” Sam finished, nodding, light hitting his highlights all innocent and shit, like he _wasn’t_ an agent of the devil.

“ _This_ is sympathy? Are you kidding me?”

Sam finally broke, cracking a grin and actually _enjoying_ Dean’s torment. Obviously there would be retribution later, when he got the slime out of his mouth. Yeah, slime was way better than spunk. He thought.

Sam held out a hand and Dean smacked it away with a fist, getting up on his own, thank you very much, while trying to wipe some of the crap off his face. From the way Sam looked at him and then quickly away, he was pretty sure he had streaks of slime in a pattern that resembled old quilts or that crap they called modern art. He thought it was modern art. He was pretty sure that was the stuff Sam showed him that one time—

But God, not the point. The point was his brother was evil and also, hated him. Still, even that was less the point than that his mouth felt dirty and disgusting and tasted like he didn’t even wanna know what and this was why he kept bottled water in the trunk.

Dean turned from Sam, not dignifying his amusement with a reaction, and stomped across the remains of the mushrooms. He kept right on going through the assembled leaves and sticks and dirt, kicking a felled tree trunk along the way.

He could use the stress relief of breaking shit with his boots. Spunk. _God_.

***

The water hadn’t really done anything, even after rinsing his mouth over and over again, water suddenly gone and the taste very much not. Dean still felt like he’d gotten a mouthful and he was _not_ enjoying the lingering bite of it. Sam didn’t help, sitting all smug and amused beside him in the car, like this was all fucking hilarious. And he kept _smiling_ at passersby and being all bright and cheerful and _enjoying_ himself in this small, nothing of a town. It was on purpose; Dean could _taste_ it. That and mushroom spunk.

Dean glowered. He was so abused. By everyone and everything.

Mushroom spunk. It even _sounded_ ridiculous and—wait, what had Sam said before?

“Wait, I don’t really have little collectives of mushrooms growing in me, do I?” Dean asked, driving slowly as they got deeper into the—now safe—town. He only asked because dude, that’d be fucked up. He was no incubator.

Sam snorted beside him, turning all that cheerful amusement Dean’s way. The afternoon sunlight backlit him, like he was some shiny, golden boy. Obviously it didn’t know his brother. “Yeah, Dean. Totally. You’re just gonna burst open any minute now.”

“Okay, well, if I do, it’s your fault. Also, you can’t have my Winchester when I’m gone.”

“You gave me that gun,” Sam protested and ha. Maybe that would shut down all his happy-happy shit.

“Yeah, well, there’s an unwritten rule that says I get it back when you’re being a douche bag and I’m thinkin’ this counts,” Dean shot back, tossing him a smirk and noting the way Sam’s eyes had kind of narrowed. Dean knew his brother _so_ well.

“That is not—”

Something bright and white flashed in his peripheral and Dean reacted on instinct, slowing the car and turning quickly to look. “Dude, did you see that?” Dean asked, scanning the street and shops behind him. Everything looked normal, but he could have sworn—

“What?” Sam asked, also staring out the window and shaking his head. “I don’t see anything. What’d you see?”

Huh. Everything was fine, normal, people milling on a lazy Sunday, walking in and out of little run-down stores—a mother tying her son’s shoelace, a young couple trying to paint each other with ice cream and laughing at the results. Precisely zero was wrong with the scene, ice cream abuse excluded. “Nothing. I thought I saw—never mind. Probably the slime screwing with my vision or something.”

“You sure?” Sam asked, cheerfulness of earlier a wisp of a memory, replaced by something wary and concerned.

“Yeah,” Dean said, short, and he hated it when something was off like this. He felt it, could tell, probably just the remnants of being slimed but still. It made him even more intent on getting back and jumping in the shower, screw taking off his clothes. Okay, well, maybe his jacket. It’d be a shame to ruin good leather like that.

“Okay, well, can you pull over at the grocery store?”

Dean flicked his eyes down Sam’s body, nothing but a challenge. “You gonna take up cooking in your spare time, Emeril?”

“You know who Emeril is?”

Oh. Yeah, that was kinda iffy, huh? “Shut up,” he said, keeping it succinct. Sam shook his head a little bit, like he was thinking how little room Dean had to be calling Sam a freak, which, by the way, was total bullshit because at least Dean didn’t mutter the names of Zoroastrian gods in his sleep and also—

“Dude, store,” Sam said after Dean had almost passed it. Whoops. Might have gotten a little distracted there. Fortunately the next road curved around the store so Dean took that and shrugged his shoulders like it’d all been purposeful. It was possible.

All he wanted was a shower and possibly food to get the damned taste out of his mouth, but no, he was gonna wait for his brother to go _shopping_. This was his life.

Sam rolled his eyes as he cracked the door. “Try not to run away with any lonely housewives while I’m gone, okay?” he asked.

“I’m saving myself all for you, cupcake,” he said, smiling sweetly.

Sam shut the door a little harder than he really needed to, if Dean did say so himself. Which he did.

***

Holy God, what was Sam buying, the entire produce section? Did they really need a truckload of food or, you know, anything beyond Red Bulls and Snickers? Honestly. The kid had no sense and he’d been in there for, like, five hours. The sun had shifted _angle_ , for God’s sake, and the shadows had lengthened over the car. He thought.

Wait, where had the sun been before? That memory was curiously absent, though Dean did notice how fun the sun was playing on his hand. He grinned, raising it and twirling it through the light, watching as the little trails of sparks filled in the space where his hand had been. Awesome. The sun so loved him. Probably way more than Sam who, oh yeah, was still not here.

Dean frowned again, like that should be important, but really, there were much more pleasant things to focus on here, like how much the sun loved him only, wait, maybe a little too much because it was getting kinda hot in the car. Weird, he had the windows cracked, but the Midwestern sun apparently didn’t like the idea of Dean wearing his jacket. Well, he’d just get rid of that, then. He was all over it.

Dean tried to shrug out of it, with difficulty, and finally just kicked open his door and climbed out, using the extra space to shake out the jacket and lay it flat in the back seat. Sammy’s Vulgate and grimoire deserved the sun way less than the coolness that was his jacket. It was _obvious_.

Dean felt a little better, leaning against his awesome car and ooh, it was warm. He petted it, happy, grinning when his fingers left behind cool blue streaks. Yes, he could cool the car off himself if he had to, but he didn’t have to because she was happy warm. Dean could tell, he always knew what his car thought, and she liked the sun and the sun _loved_ Dean so all was well with the world and his car did not need his cool blue touch even though, really, it might have been a relief on a hot day like—

A black crow called out, musical notes splitting through the blue sky and swirling into little bursts of light and dude, so not fair. Dean’s notes could totally take the bird’s notes, but the bird could fly and so was privileged by being closer to the sun. Unfair, if he focused on it too long, but why was the nape of his neck twitching?

Dean looked around but no one watched him from afar—not that he’d blame them if they did, he was hot shit—and hmm, was that the sun stroking down again? It prickled between his shoulder blades, but no, the sun couldn’t reach there.

Oh. That was it then.

Dean twisted out of the button-down with a little difficulty—the plaid caught him somewhere around his left elbow and it wouldn’t let go, just kept multiplying along his skin in a red wash of little squares, seeking vengeance against the sun for taking him away from them. He could understand, sympathize even, way better than Sam could sympathize and right, where was Sam again?

But eventually the squares had to declare defeat, freakin’ pussies that they were, they didn’t deserve the honor of victory, and Dean threw them down to play with the black of the pavement, grinning at the depression when the shirt landed. See? Now the squares had playmates in the lines and they could have, like, square dances and shit in a flurry of red and white and black. He’d done them a favor. They should thank him.

When the well-deserved thanks were not forthcoming, squares too busy frolicking on the white lines, Dean cursed the squares to oblivion and decided that was why the sun had moved him so; the squares weren’t grateful enough. They didn’t deserve to dance against his skin.

Something caught him out of his eye and ooh, a pretty woman pushed a cart to her car, the wheels drudging through the melted concrete but she pushed on. Now _that_ was a woman, one fortified enough to advance through all obstacles, even when it was grasping, boiling pavement under her. She didn’t even notice, just swinging her groceries into her trunk as her blue, blue skirt played with the wind, sending starbursts through the air every time it fluttered out, teasing.

Her skirt was a tease. He should probably tell her that, but ooh, a trickle of sweat slid down his spine, little pinpricks of light all under his skin and bursting into his vision with a shuddering thrill. Dean turned, tried to look, but his evil black t-shirt was in the way and he couldn’t _see_ the light and it was _his_ light and it wasn’t fair of the shirt to steal that from him.

The shirt dropped to smother the squares and Dean grinned as he heard their dying cries; that’s what they got for not being properly appreciative.

But still, he couldn’t twist enough to see the light and—

“Oh, my God. What are you doing?” Sam’s voice sliced through the air, leaving jagged orange strings in its wake, and ooh, that was very cool. He didn’t know his bro could do that.

Wait, what had he said?

“I can’t see the light,” Dean answered, happy as his voice turned into notes, notes that could so kick the crow’s notes’ asses, but they were too low, too far from the sun, and Dean suddenly felt the loss keenly.

“Dean, why are you stripping in public?” Sam asked. He walked closer to Dean, eyes shooting beams of light as he looked around, shifted.

“The sun wanted to show me something,” Dean informed him, grinning at the way the little squiggles in Sam’s forehead came out to play. He poked at them, laughing as they ran away from him, even as he tried to press them, catching in Sam’s skin, but little rivers of yellow followed his fingers instead.

He wondered who would win in a battle between the squiggles and the squares. Probably the squares. They could multiply. Saucy bastards.

“Are you _high_?” Sam breathed, skin going red behind Dean’s fingers. Then purple. Then a deep, deep blue that would put the sky to shame and Dean covered Sam’s face with his hands, not wanting the sky to see it. It’d be jealous and take Sammy away.

Sam’s fingers circled his wrists and ooh, his skin turned orange there, but then Sam pushed him back and thankfully his face wasn’t a blue to envy the sky anymore, but had gone orange to match Dean’s.

Really, they matched so much better than Sam ever got. Dean would have to explain it to him one day.

But wait, no, his skin changed again, the green of a leaf, then the green of a forest. Then, wait, the green of Dean’s eyes.

“Dammit, Sammy, would you just pick a color and stick with it? God, you’re always so…shifty like that.”

“You _are_ high. How did you—the mushrooms,” Sam said, eyes beaming lasers behind Dean and Dean twisted to look, catching a glimpse of the light glittering across his back and oh, yeah, that’s what he’d wanted to see.

“I can almost see it,” he said, trying to crane his neck, but Sam still held his hands and pulled his attention back. The squiggles were mounting a defense against the coming square incursion and really, it was a doomed struggle. They should raise the white right now…

White. _Oh_. Oh, that was _good_. If the squiggles allied with the pavement lines against the squares, they would so overtake those evil, multiplying squares. The lines had the power of length and brightness. They could blind the squares

“I am a master tactician,” Dean said, his notes bouncing off Sam’s cheek and crawling up to swing from his eyebrows as the squiggles made yet another ally. “I am a master tactician and even just speaking helps the side of good and light in their great, underdog of a struggle.”

“Wow. Just—wow. Okay, I need to get you to the motel. Um—” Sam leaned down, scooping up the squares before Dean could warn him about their dastardly plot. But then he shoved them to Dean, so he obviously understood the power Dean’s words had to neutralize the multiplying threat of the squares. He knew Sammy would understand. That was good; that was right.

Sam had finally chosen a color—pale green to complement Dean’s orangey fire—and his eyes blinked green at Dean, who blinked green right back. It was like they were on the same wave, riding the same colors or complementary ones or something.

“Put your clothes on, Dean,” Sam said, elongating the words, but his words didn’t turn to notes, they just stabbed through the air with orange and fire and that wouldn’t help in the struggle, not at all.

“The squares need to be contained,” he said, wrapping the shirt around them, necessary since Sam’s words wouldn’t support the cause. But he wasn’t a traitor; he just didn’t have the resources. That was okay. Dean could make up for both of them.

“Okay, yeah, I am _so_ driving,” Sam said, painting green streaks across Dean’s skin when he pushed him around the car, who was still warm and still happy and liked Sam, so it was okay.

***

Dean had refused to put on his clothes and Sam couldn’t drive that fast through the middle of town, so a whole lot of people ended up knowing a whole lot more about his brother than was necessary or even likely to keep them unnoticed. The wolf whistles didn’t help. 

Whatever happened to small-town morality, that was what Sam would like to know?

It had seemed simple enough once they figured it out, some kind of weird possession that no one had ever come upon before. A few cast-iron rounds, some chanting, piece of cake, right?

Sam wanted that piece of cake, dammit. He did not sign up for his brother to start _stripping_ in _public_.

At least it wasn’t ecstasy, Sam thought a little wildly. Because if it were ecstasy Dean would probably be sucking on things—possibly people—and that wouldn’t lead anywhere good.

Yes, Sam could content himself just a little bit in how not-ecstasy this was. It was just shrooms, a milder hallucinogen in the LSD family.

Wow, that so wasn’t helping.

Neither was Dean who kept getting distracted by…things and would reach over and touch Sam or try to climb out the window and this was _not_ what he meant in all those interviews when he said he was an expert multitasker. A hand on Dean’s belt, anchoring his brother’s ass inside the car—you know, that place he _wouldn’t_ get run over by oncoming traffic or ogled by the town’s pre-teen set—while driving and trying not to kill them both was emphatically _not_ what Sam meant.

Cosmic joke. Had to be. Someone hated him.

“Dean, _sit down_ ,” he shouted, tugging on the belt and not bothering to swerve to avoid the road kill. 

He kinda wanted to _be_ the road kill at this point.

Dean said something in response, which Sam couldn’t hear because the car was _on_ and the windows were _open_ and Dean was practically faceplanting the pavement.

“What?” he yelled, tugging some more. Dean must have heard him and wanted to chat, or something, because he pulled himself back inside the car, hair all windblown and eyes just blown. And grinning. Maniacally. 

“I’m brokering a deal with the pavement lines, dude. Master tactician,” he crowed, pumping his fist once, triumphant, before sticking his head back out the window. A passing car honked and the driver yelled, but Sam had a few more pressing concerns. Like keeping the both of them alive long enough for the shrooms to wear off. As long as it wasn’t the cops honking at him, he no longer cared.

“Dean!”

But it seemed Dean also had more pressing concerns because he just ignored Sam even as Sam tried to pull him back in by his belt.

From what Sam could gather, there was some kind of war brewing and it had something to do with Dean’s red flannel shirt that was bundled inside his black t-shirt…for some reason. And Dean kept styling himself some kind of battlefield general who was the key to all survival. Or something.

Yeah, Sam really had nothing.

Definitely hallucinations, since Sam was pretty sure the flannel wasn’t about to hurt anyone—save possibly good fashion sense—and Dean seemed to see it as the harbinger of the apocalypse. And he was probably experiencing some synesthesia, as well, since whenever Sam talked Dean would look at his mouth and then follow something up to his forehead. That was probably what he meant with his words fighting for the side of good and light.

Jeez, trust Dean to see some cosmic battle being waged, and then want to join the fight when he got stoned off his ass. Fucking typical. He couldn’t just lie down in the car and giggle at sunlight or something? No, he had to be a _hero_.

Finally—finally—the motel was in sight, freakin’ bizarre town that had everything all spread out like this, and Dean must have finished his conversation with the asphalt because he climbed back in and patted Sam on the face again and there was so no way Sam would put up with this shit if Dean weren’t high and Sam didn’t need one hand to drive and the other to make sure his brother didn’t die.

“Dude, why are you groping me?” Dean asked, wiggling back against the seat and kind of crushing Sam’s hand back there.

“I am not groping you; I am saving your life,” he growled, absolutely refusing to relinquish his hold until the car was no longer moving.

He should really invest in a leash.

But no, this would be over in a few hours if there was any kind of God in the universe.

“That’s a new technique.” And God! Couldn’t his snarking function take a break?

“Don’t you have a negotiation to conduct or something?”

Dean grinned, happy as you like, a ray of fucking sunshine, jeez. “All done. But it’s good to know you’re taking an interest.” Sam had learned from many long years acquaintance that when Dean commented about ‘taking an interest,’ well, things happened. Bad things.

He was so gonna end up bald and naked in public. Possibly with only bunny slippers to save his dignity. Really, he should just resign himself now.

***

Getting Dean into the motel room was more problematic than, well, anything. Of _course_. Because there had to be a busload of honest-to-God cheerleaders milling around the parking lot as the weary-but-still-ecstatic driver changed a tire. Cheerleaders.

His brother. Half-naked and stoned, smiling like a drunken Yoda on crack and if his snarking function hadn’t taken a break, well, that other function didn’t seem to have, either.

“Ladies, ladies, there’s enough of me to go around.”

“Are you really a general?” one asked, fluttering really fake eyelashes up at Dean and twirling a lock of way-less-expensive-than-platinum blonde hair.

“You are, indeed, looking at the man who is gonna save you all.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, gesturing to their room and looking pointed.

“In a minute, in a minute. Now, who wants to see my gun?”

“Is it…big?” a wide-eyed brunette asked, and no, she was so not that innocent, an opinion shared by Dean if his grin were anything to go by.

“Okay, ladies, I’m sorry but we’re gonna have to cut this short. _The general_ has an important meeting to make,” Sam said, ignoring their assembled awwws and pulling Dean toward their room and salvation and a total lack of cheerleaders.

At least, he hoped there was a total lack of cheerleaders.

Dean seemed content to go with the flow, which was different for him since any other time Sam would have gotten a smack to the head and an irritated snarl for pulling him away from girls. 

But no, he was not going to be thankful to the shrooms for anything because God, Dean was telling people he was a _general_. 

Still, attention whore though he may be, at least Dean wasn’t off licking them or anything. Did shrooms inhibit sexual appetite? Sam couldn’t remember. And he never thought he’d regret not listening to his first-half-semester stoner of a roommate but he was.

That was this day for you.

Pushing him into the room was a feat, but once there, Dean stilled, eyeing his bed like it would up and bite him given the first opportunity.

“Okay, I know the pattern’s bad, but it’s hardly flesh-eating,” Sam said mildly.

“Think the flowers’ll side with the squiggles or the squares?” Dean responded…and right. High. As the freakin’ Empire State Building, apparently.

Sam tried to sound reassuring: “Okay, since it’s shrooms we just need to wait it out. It’ll be…fine. A few hours and you’ll be good as new. Thankfully it’s not LSD because, man, that’d take—but hours. Hours are fine.”

Dean flexed his hands and continued to watch the bed warily. “Just have to risk it,” he muttered. Then he took a flying leap and—

Yep, landed squarely in the middle of the bed with an ominous screeching sound, metal protesting as it flailed and _died_. Sam was so not answering any questions about how they broke the bed. None at all. Dean could field those all by his lonesome.

Absurdly, Dean looked pleased. So…the flowers must have sided with the good and light?

“Master tactician,” Dean crowed, dropping down to land heavily on the spread, no bounce left now that Dean had broken the damn thing. Sam supposed this was a good tidbit to store away for future torture use—‘hey, remember that time you got high and broke the bed because you wanted it to ally with you in the war of whatever?’—and yet, Sam was having a bit of trouble focusing on the silver lining of all of this.

That might be because he was sure Dean would come up with some perversely sexual way to spin all this…and wow, Sam so didn’t need to go there.

Right. Moving on. “How are you feeling? Are you thirsty? Hungry?” he asked, trying to modulate his voice into something soothing.

Dean grinned at him, pleased with Sam, the world, possibly all existence, everywhere…and then he giggled.

Could this get _any_ more bizarre?

“Sammy,” he crooned, waving his arms around and then following their path with his eyes. Yeah, definitely hallucinating. “You want to take care of the cornerstone of the squiggle resistance. You’ve come over to the right side.” He sounded so proud of Sam, like this was really, really important to him.

Sam frowned, and Dean beamed at him some more, and obviously the shrooms had made his brother _insane_.

“Um, okay?”

“I know you’re not the enemy. You’re just not too on about the intricacies of squiggle-note-line relations.” Right, what made Sam think enclosing them together in a small room would end up in any way other than Sam needing a padded cell himself?

His mind flashed back to cheerleaders and oh, right. That.

Well, maybe Dean could put on some clothes. And they could go…do something that would involve some rationality and would not lead to premature death.

“Well, why don’t you just put on something and we’ll go, um, get food?”

“Deep-down you know what’s right; you just think too much.” Dean nodded sagely, his mood depressing at the speed of light and right, shrooms were just hallucinogens. It wasn’t like Dean would up and off himself or anything. Not without prior mental health problems and screwed up though they were, they weren’t _that_ screwed up.

“There’s no such thing as thinking too much,” Sam said slowly, feeling Dean out on this one. He was so not up for any moping, crying…or any other kind of bad tripness. That was not okay.

“There is when the squares are multiplying by the second and you alienated the pavement lines and you have no notes.” Now Dean was practically desolate…and right, distraction. Possibly with food because even if Dean weren’t hungry, Sam suddenly was. Ravenous.

And what did you say to that, anyway? “I don’t think so, Dean.”

“That’s the problem: thinking,” he said mournfully. “Thinking when the threat is right in front of your face.” Food. Food would make this go away and his brother would be happy-go-lucky guy again. Totally.

And see, Sam knew the awful, death-by-flower spreads of his youth were detrimental to his health. Look how fast they turned Dean downhill. Proof positive, right here.

***

Getting Dean into clothing had proven more difficult than anticipated, of course. Every time Sam pulled out a shirt it was invariably some kind of plaid and after Dean stuffed the sixth one under the table in the corner—proclaiming Sam a traitor to his own and questioning how Sam could stand to look at himself with all his traitor traitorousness—Sam just threw up his hands and tossed him one of Sam’s very plain, very grey shirts and a hoodie to match. 

Dean had approved and at least Sam hadn’t had to physically stuff him into the clothes or anything, probably good with the way Dean kept making comments about Sam changing colors on him and, like, trying to pet him, as if Dean’s touch _did_ something. 

Yeah, staying away was the plan.

Dean was safely ensconced in clothing, not a bare limb to be seen, and they hadn’t even been molested by errant cheerleaders on the way to the diner, so Sam was starting to consider this sojourn a success.

He ruthlessly ignored how Dean kept whispering to the paper placemats as they sat and waited for the waitress. That didn’t exist in his world. Sam _had_ that kind of power, he _did_.

“What can I get for you boys?” the waitress asked, snapping her gum and not eyeing Dean too noticeably. What was it with his brother? Did he have a blue aura that everyone, everywhere was just drawn to?

Or possibly just the most ridiculously charming smile on the face of the planet? He didn’t pull it out too often…except when he was high and then he gifted it to the crack in the pavement and the rank trashcan outside the door and even Beatrice here. ‘Cause smiling like a loon wouldn’t cause any undue attention _at all_.

“A fighting force the world has never know,” Dean said, smiling and nodding and Beatrice looked a little glazed, just until that actually made some sense to her, and then she backed off a little, seeming to get that pretty didn’t always equal non-crazy.

“Huh?”

“He’ll have the split-pea soup. And can I get the turkey wrap with no mayo? Please,” he added the last, smiling—gently and not at all like he had just successfully negotiated a treaty between the swirls and the whatevers—and handing her the menus.

“Sure thing,” she said, looking back at Dean with a frown, Dean who’d discovered his silverware and was making it glint in the sunlight, grinning like it was the awesomest thing ever.

He’d probably drafted them into his fight, legions of forks and knives and spoons ready to conquer the known universe if only a certain smile from Dean would lead them on to glory and triumph.

Yeah, Sam was waiting for that tale. He gave it five minutes.

But the waitress still hadn’t left and right, they were doing great with being circumspect. Fantastic.

“Thank you,” Sam said, obviously dismissing her, which she thankfully heeded, walking away on a cloud of perfume and confusion. Dean could probably have told him all about its visual footprint. Sam didn’t ask.

Dean focused from the waitress back to Sam, that shit-eating grin back in place. “The forks needed more convincing, but I persuaded them.”

Oh, it was gonna be a long hour.

***

Two minutes. Sam had left Dean alone, at their table, for two fucking minutes to go the bathroom and this is what he found?

Hell, he shouldn’t even be surprised at this point. On a normal day Dean was some kind of relentless chick magnet. Dean high doubled his wattage and raised it to the power of twenty-five billion. Of course he’d have cheerleaders practically in his lap. Of _course_.

Sam gritted his teeth and steeled himself to play cockblock _again_. The things he did for his brother. The monsters he could handle. Facing off against giggling cheerleaders? _That_ was tiring.

“But you didn’t eat your soup,” the blonde one leaning over and down—the better to display her cleavage with—simpered at him.

“I’m not gonna dirty the spoon like that. It’s gonna help me win the war.”

“Was the soup bad?” And oh, great, there was Beatrice, ensnared like all the rest, count them, eight girls clustered around Dean, falling all over him. What, did they _like_ crazy? Was crazy fun for them? Or was it just that Dean didn’t take the initiative and come onto them first? Something new and different?

Or did they just not get that the man thought he would soon wage an epic battle for all their souls…with spoons as his allies and against the evil empire of plaid shirts everywhere?

“Ladies, I’m so sorry to break this up, but we do have to be moving on,” Sam said, clasping his hands to keep from hauling Dean up by the scruff of his neck. Though he could so pull that off. Probably.

Dean frowned at him, but it wasn’t so much _at_ him as at something, nodding vaguely. Sam took that as agreement and waved him on, urging him up and toward the door, even as the girls bemoaned their loss.

That was…really easy.

“You all right?” Sam asked as he followed Dean outside, frowning at him, which absurdly only seemed to get to him more, Dean’s eyes flicking across Sam’s face, concerned.

“We need to get back.” Dean picked up his pace, where before it was a lazy, comfortable gait, now there was something urgent in his stride, purposefully heading back to their room.

Sam jogged to catch up, patting him on the shoulder. “Hey, man, what’s gong on?”

“The squiggles are disappearing. We have to act now.”

“Right. And what would that entail?” he asked, really not panicking, not at all. Because there was no squiggle-plaid war, it was all in Dean’s head. Nothing bad could happen.

“No worries, bro. I have a plan.”

***

Dean was troubled by his brother’s inability to support his own resistance, he just had to go against the grain like that, but that wasn’t the point. The notes that had amassed on Sam’s eyebrows were slowly slinking away, faithless lightweights they were, and the alliance was in danger of cracking. 

And it had been such a beautiful pact, too. There wasn’t exactly a lot of territory on Sam’s face and all it had needed was an attempted land-grab and the whole thing would have burst all to hell, not to mention that they’d lost the lines thanks to Sam. But none of that had happened…now it was just a slow melting away, but no. Dean would not consider failure.

Failure was not an option.

He rounded his baby, the car winking happily at him and shivering at his touch. Such a good girl and he petted her for a second, but no, no time to waste.

He reached into the back, coming up with the pure evil that he’d had the misfortune to wave at everyone as he walked around. Dean felt bad about that; he hadn’t even known he was leading anyone astray by wearing the evil like a taunt. But he could make up for it now.

Sammy was there to back him up, behind and just to the right, squiggles back full-force again and that was good. It kept the squares in check, a threat of mutually assured destruction.

“Um, Dean?” he asked, but Dean couldn’t stop, had to keep moving, keep it going before the pause killed him and he couldn’t complete his mission.

The trunk opened on a song of lilting white. It should sing; he was the savior of them all. Dean rooted through, wondering at the obstacles in his path, but then the trunk offered up her prize and Dean latched onto it and tugged. The trunk groaned in ecstasy and Dean had to agree; they were so _close_.

The vile bundle of red dropped to the floor on a shrieking wave—it knew its fate—and Dean grinned, hefting the barbeque lighter and lighting it before Sammy could try and step in. He liked to preserve life, Dean understood, but sometimes death was the only option.

“Dean!” Sam said sharply, predictably, but Dean ignored him, crouching and letting flame lick at the squares. The spoon had enlightened him during lunch, its fire glinting off steel, a flaming reminder that the squares had a weakness in their makeup. 

Now this flame, curiously constant in its orange fire, consumed the squares, their slicing pleas easily ignored. 

Had to do what he had to do. No room for mercy in war. The squares wouldn’t get Sammy this day.

The squares made grating squeaks as they burned, burn baby burn, dying off, one by one, never to live and terrorize another day.

After they were all gone, Dean was sure, he suddenly felt tired. Really, really tired. Sammy shifted at his side.

“Feelin’ okay, Dean?” he asked, still trying to take car of his brother, his brother who’d saved them all. Sam, at least, was appropriately appreciative.

“‘m tired,” Dean mumbled, rubbing his eyes as the world lengthened and sped up around him.

“Why don’t we get you to bed, huh? Come on, the room’s right here.” Yes, this was good, this was right. Dean nodded and let Sam lead him there.

It was exhausting saving the universe.

***

“Hey, Dean, remember that time you burned your shirt because you thought the plaid would revolt and take over the universe?” Sam asked for the four millionth time because he was _just_ that annoying.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, one hand on the wheel and the other tapping out a beat against his leg. Sam was just lucky Dean didn’t beat it out against his head with the way he’d been going on.

“Hey, Dean, remember the time you got high and took your barbeque lighter to red flannel that offended God and man alike?”

“Oh, my God, I can hurt you, you know.”

“But Dean, you’re my _savior_. You’re the savior of us _all_.”

“And you’re the annoying dipshit, the annoying dipshit of us _all_ ,” he mimicked, somewhat lamely but dude, he was off his game. His head was _pounding_.

Not that he was about to tell Sam that. Little shit was preening enough as it was.

“Hey, I was the one who bought you the stuff that cleaned off your jacket. You should thank me.”

“Leaving me alone to have an acid trip. Would a thank you note be sufficient or do I need to buy you a present?”

“Getting to watch as you saved the world? Present enough for me,” Sam said, cracking up again, having the goddamn best time of his life, mocking Dean’s pain—not that he knew about Dean’s pain, but still—as he tried to perfect his one-liners.

His one-liners sucked _balls_.

“Your one-liners suck balls, dude,” he said, rooting around for his sunglasses. Fucking sunlight. Hated him.

“Oh, someone’s defensive. Are we embarrassed that we have such grandiose visions of ourselves that in drugs we become the hero of all humanity?” Sam waved his arms expansively, all movement over there and it was damned distracting.

“ _We_ are gonna inflict some violence on a certain little brother if he doesn’t shut his trap in the next five seconds.”

Sam suddenly stilled, noticeable because of how not still he’d been since they’d left the motel for a poltergeist in bumfuck, Idaho. “Stripping in _public_. Telling cheerleaders you were a _war general_. Talking to placemats. _Petting_ me. You will _feel_ my pain, dude.”

“Oh, now…actually, yeah. That’s probably fair.”

“Damn right it is.” He paused and Dean waited for it; it was inevitable, and his brother was predictable as all hell. “Hey Dean, remember that time a possessed collective of mushrooms spooged in your mouth?”

Fuck fair. The kid was dead.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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